


the right side of my neck (still smells like you)

by sallymalik



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Finger Sucking, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Slow Burn, adam brody is here and just vibing, stick with me here, they do fuck but emotionally it is a slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:47:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24190792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallymalik/pseuds/sallymalik
Summary: “Myra said she’d believe me if I got a boyfriend. Or a partner, or whatever—whatever the fuck you call it when you’re forty-years-old and you’ve just realized you’re gay. And she won’t go through with the divorce otherwise. She’s—she’s stuck on everything I’m not telling her about Derry.”Richie nods, understanding at least some of it. “So, you want me to play matchmaker? I know a few guys, Eddie, but that’s a pretty small favor to come all the way out to L.A. for.”“No, I want you to listen to me,” Eddie braces for the worst as he says it. “I told her it was you.”“You what?” Richie sputters....Richie and Eddie fake date while (unknowingly) in real love.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 61
Kudos: 872
Collections: Quarantine It Fic Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you [ Jace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themyscirawitch) for beta-ing! And thank you for listening to me try to plot this out for weeks. And to [ Niko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elektrolizardprince) for being a super receptive reader and motivating me to finish! And, finally, thank you to the entire simp server. You have all been so supportive. Ily guys!
> 
> Title is from Right Side of My Neck by Faye Webster.

To recap, in the months since Derry, all Eddie has time to do is think.

On one hand, he feels partially liberated, free from Its lingering presence. On the other, he feels fucking defeated, having wasted nearly thirty years apart from the only people who ever truly loved him.

He starts working from home, holed up away from the rest of the world. He doesn’t get a therapist (because no one would believe a story like his), but he knows he should. While free from some of his neuroses, others have amplified, leaving him to obsess over the human-caused terror that occurred.

He can’t shower with the curtain drawn and keeps it open at all times, much to Myra’s dismay. She’ll come in to grab a prescription or hand cream and gasp! Cover her eyes, even! _Eddie-Bear, put that thing away!_ It’s not like she hasn’t seen it before, he’ll say, or try to say, but she always leaves the room in a huff. Sometimes he wishes she would stay, but most times he’s glad she doesn’t. It’s better that they keep their distance. Especially seeing as, since leaving Derry, Eddie’s finally realized what the larger problem at hand is.

He’s gay.

He knew this before, and he knows this after, but it’s muddled in the in between. There was no sense of certainty like the one he gains afterwards. He feels like he’s been two separate people, and they’re only just now merging into this nasty, amorphous blob that Eddie has no way of reconciling with. There’s a wholeness to this new self, but it’s not comforting, nor fulfilling. It’s disorienting.

He doesn’t know how to talk to the others. Not like he could when they were children. It gets so bad that Mike calls him up one night, opening like what they’d been through never happened. _Eddie, it’s Mike Hanlon, from Derry._ Eddie calmly told him he remembered, was always going to remember, that he loved them, but he just needed space.

There’s only one person he wants to talk to while the dust settles: Richie.

* * *

It’s always been Richie.

Several months ago, Eddie, terrified by something he could not name, entered the Jade of the Orient, prepped for a sudden reunion of old friends. Bill and Mike triggered plenty of memories, endless afternoons spent riding their bikes around town, fast enough to beat the devil.

It was, however, the sight of Richie that sent him reeling. Trashmouth. God, so much came rushing back, and even some after that— _I’ve seen your show!_ He wanted to scream, blurt out like some superfan, but he’d never give Richie the satisfaction, _I didn’t even know it was you! How did I not know it was you?_

The terrible truth is that it only took one look at Richie for Eddie to remember he was his first (albeit, unrequited) love. But he hadn’t put it in so many words, it was truly just the gut feeling, the instinctiveness of it all, his mind, an endless loop of the same thought _: If you stop looking at me, I’ll die._

That didn’t matter. Eddie was married, and Richie, according to his stand-up, was straight. It was all probably coming from a place of admiration, misplaced affection, of a lack of girls in their friend group. He and Richie got along best, why not want to be close to him?

Richie looked at him plenty over the course of their trip. Had touched him, too, to arm wrestle, a gentle pat while giving him a pep-talk, his hand on his arm, stopping him from choosing the wrong door—and, finally, when Eddie rescued him from the deadlights. Eddie had touched his arms, his chest, his cheek _, I think I killed it!_ Before being pulled into the most intimate, bone-crushing hug he’d ever felt, Richie tugging him down wordlessly, chest to chest. Then Its claw darted towards them, and they were quickly rolling and scrambling out of Its reach.

Later, in the quarry, Eddie would clean the dirt off Richie’s glasses and hand them back to him unceremoniously, an unspoken _thank you for saving me_ and vice-versa. Richie’s fingers brushed his in the exchange, but neither of them said a word. There was nothing they could say. Nothing Eddie could say.

Other than: _I loved you. I love you. I think I’ll always love you_. But he couldn’t possibly say it out loud

* * *

Richie tries inviting him out plenty of times. Insisting, even, that Eddie come see him in Chicago. Eddie politely declines each offer, knowing that going means facing the feelings he’s desperately trying to avoid. After months of this back and forth, talking about really the littlest of things, falling back into their old rhythm, Eddie is surprised one day to see him trending on Twitter. Was he canceled? Had he said something? _Oh god, had he died?_

It’s a thread of two tweets, both short and to the point.

 **@RTozier:** _can’t decide on what to wear so I guess I’m coming out of the closet.  
_**@RTozier** : _jesus that joke was funnier in my head. I’m fucking gay._

Three words stare back at him from his screen: _I’m fucking gay_.

It seems so easy. He can just say it. And—well, that changes Eddie’s perspective on a lot of things. Has Richie caught his lingering looks? His stupid little glances? Does Richie know?

Then, suddenly, a flood of articles, congratulations, hate tweets—Eddie reads for hours what people are saying about Richie until he’s worked himself up enough to puke. _It seems so easy._

He sends Richie a text: _Proud of you_ , and makes his way back to the living room, where his wife is sat watching one of her soaps. He sits beside her without a word.

* * *

Marrying Myra seemed like a logical choice at the time. They were both abrasive, loud, and terrible with other people. He’ll admit (much later, and only to himself) that it helped that she physically reminded him of Sonia. He found that comforting. It is difficult to reconcile with what his mother had done to him, but there are times he finds himself longing to just be near her again. It was always best when they didn’t have to say anything at all. No pills to take, no fights to have, just the two of them watching television, waiting as the world passed them by.

That should have been Eddie’s first clue that he wasn’t sexually attracted to Myra.

She was easy for him to get along with. At first. She could keep up with him to a degree Eddie hadn’t experienced in a long time. Later, he would realize he hadn’t experienced it in so long because the last time he had, it was with Richie, and, of course the other Losers. But, his feelings for Myra came nowhere near that. Being with her was just a taste of how it felt to be near his old friends. No wonder he chose her. He was missing someone he didn’t even know.

They were terrible to each other for it: screaming fights, crying fits, lying, avoiding each other. She would do anything if it meant keeping him inside, somewhere the two of them had designated as safe. When she would cry, Eddie would zone out and try to imagine himself in his happy place, far away from every decision he’d made to get here. He had fantasies about leaving her. Fantasies about other people. He had inappropriate thoughts about Teddy from accounting, with his broad shoulders and expensive horn-rimmed glasses, and Karl, from marketing, scruffy-haired and always cracking jokes. He knew. Even in that in-between, part of him knew what he was. Who he is.

Eddie doesn’t know what to expect when he finally tells her the truth. Maybe hysterics, maybe laughter, but by the time the words came out of his mouth, all she says is:

“Why?” She seems so puzzled as she says it, not angry or sad, just confused.

 _Why._ That was certainly a way to respond to him coming out. Eddie racks his brain for a moment, trying to figure out just what she had meant. Eventually he settles on: _why had he chosen to tell her now?_

“Richie.” Richie’s tweets. That was it. Richie coming out was the catalyst.

That’s certainly not the right answer. Myra makes a quiet, shocked noise. “Richie Tozier made you gay?”

“No?” That stumps him. Did Richie…? No. He reminds himself it didn’t work like that. He isn’t just some puppy, blindly following Richie around and copying his every move. He has a mind of his own. The two truths of him being gay and him loving Richie can exist separately. “No. I made me gay. I mean, Richie’s not why I’m gay. He’s why I’m coming out.”

“If you were gay you would have told me.” Myra gapes. “It’s been years, you would have told me. I would have known, Eddie. You would have said something, or done something, or—I mean, I know you, Eddie! I know you!”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Marty.” Eddie says softly. “I’m gay. That’s who I am. I’m sorry it took so long, but I’m not sorry I’m telling you.”

“No.” She replies firmly.

_“No?”_

“Ever since you came back you’ve been different, Eddie. And don’t try to tell me you haven’t! This is just…” Eddie watches her search for the words, the tears starting to roll down her cheeks. “How am I supposed to believe you?

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up. “You don’t believe I’m gay?”

Myra says nothing and shakes her head.

Eddie points to himself. “Me?”

Again, she shakes her head. Then, firmly, she asks, “Are you on drugs?”

“No, I’m not on drugs—Myra, I’m telling you this because want a divorce.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Excuse me?”

“I am not divorcing you until you tell me what’s really going on.” She gestures wildly to the scar on his cheek, “I mean, come on, Eddie! You left without a word! You came back with a stab wound!”

“That’s not what this is about!” Eddie gestures right back at her.

They’re both quiet for a moment. Eddie feels at a loss.

“I—I won’t go through with it. Not unless you tell me what happened.” She sniffles, looking away from him.

“I can’t. I can’t do that.” He rubs absently at his cheek, feeling the raised tissue of his scar. If he says anything, he knows she’ll send him straight to the loony bin. Or worse, she’ll lockdown the house after finding out he’d been targeted by a _murderer_. There’s no simple solution. “But I can’t—we can’t not break up, Myra. I mean it. I’m done pretending.”

She steels herself, looking back and searching his face. After a moment, she opens her mouth again. “Prove it.”

“Prove what?”

Myra sighs, clearly not wanting to explain herself, “If you get a, a boyfriend, or whatever you call it. I’ll believe you.”

“Myra…” He scoffs, his hands resting on his hips. “That’s—I mean, that’s—” Impossible. Who would even want him? Forty-years-old, neurotic, and inexperienced. He surely isn’t anyone’s fantasy. Then, suddenly, it clicks: a terrible, stupid idea that might just work.

Now, Eddie has to preface this thought. Richie doesn’t owe Eddie anything for Eddie saving him from the deadlights. However, Eddie isn’t above saying Richie owed him a favor in order to convince him to go through with this. If they have to go through with this.

“That’s fine, because,” He shifts quickly, feigning confidence. “Because Richie and I are actually together. We’ve been together since we saw each other in Maine. And I wanted to wait to tell you because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, but it’s the truth. So, I’m going to go see my boyfriend, and we’ll—we’ll contact our lawyers, won’t we?”

* * *

Eddie calls Richie immediately, packing his bags as quickly as he can. God, it had only been a couple weeks since Richie came out and it already feels too soon to dump this all on him. He can only imagine the relief Richie feels, he’d only had a taste of it just now.

Richie picks up on the third ring. “Spaghetti! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Eddie freezes for a moment, not sure of what to say. What is he doing? He knows he’s going to fuck this all up. Ruin everything. Humiliate them both.

Richie does what he does best and fills the silence while Eddie panics.

“Hey, Earth to Eds. Is this a butt dial? Eddie’s ass, you know we can’t keep this up without the big man finding out. Our love is sacred, much like me and Eddie’s mom—”

“Beep beep,” He forces out, looking down at his half-packed suitcase, “I don’t like you implying that my ass is sentient.”

“What can I say, we’re in love. Hot, juicy, stinky love.”

“That’s disgusting.” Eddie wrinkles his nose at the choice of adjectives.

“Anyways, what’s up? Calling just to hear my voice?”

“You wish,” Eddie huffs out a quiet laugh, sounding dorkier than he intends. _Stupid boy with a stupid crush._ The little voice in the back of his head repeats _You’re going to fuck this up_ over and over and over and— “Actually, I was wondering if I could come see you in Chicago?”

“Yeah, of course, man. I’ll be back there in October. Think you can wait ‘til then?”

Eddie pauses. It’s May. “What do you mean October?”

“I’m getting ready to shoot thing out in L.A. right now. It’s a Netflix series, so they’ll need me for a few months. Sorry we can’t go out and recreate Ferris Bueller, I know that’s a fetish of yours.”

“Shut up.” Eddie says firmly, meaning it. “I can’t wait until October. I can come to L.A. I can get the next redeye, actually—”

“Hey, man,” Richie tries to calm him from the other side of the world, and it’s almost working. “Where’s the fire? Did something happen?”

“I’m leaving Myra and I need somewhere to stay.” It all comes out in one quick breath. Eddie braces himself on the side of the bed, struggling with how quick his life was changing.

“Eddie…” Richie trails off, sounding sympathetic. “I’m proud of you. About time, I’ll tell you that.” Then, quickly he adds, “Aren’t Bev and Ben on the upper east side?”

 _I don’t want Bev and Ben, I want you,_ he wants to say, scream, even, at the top of his lungs _. I want you, you idiot!_

When he speaks again, he sounds weary, “Can I—Rich, I’d really prefer to stay with you. Is that okay? Can I come out? I promise, I won’t get in your way.”

He won’t be able to keep his promise. He knows that. But saying it makes him feel better.

“Of course, Eddie. Shit. You don’t—don’t worry about any of that shit, okay? I’ll send you the address and everything you need to know. I’ll book you a ticket, if you want.”

“No, Rich, that’s fine,” Eddie feels a great weight lifted off his shoulders. “I’ll buy the ticket, I’ll see about getting a hotel room tonight. I’ll send you the information as soon as I have it. Thank you. This is, uh,” Eddie feels himself tearing up. He quickly blinks them away. “Really sweet of you, Rich. Means a lot.”

“Hey, anytime, Spaghetti.” Richie sounds a bit wobbly on the other end too. Eddie wonders if he’s just imagining it. “Now me and your butt finally get to spend quality time together. Face to face. Ass to face?”

“ _Stupid._ I’m hanging up. Bye.”

“Yeah, you too.” Richie swallows thickly, leaving the implication of _I love you_ out in the open. “See you soon.”

* * *

Eddie, decidedly, fucking hates California.

By the time he’s off the plane and in the Uber, he’s already sweat through his polo _and_ his hoodie—stupid of him to wear a sweater in this climate, huh? He supposes he asked for it, covering himself up like he’s using a fucking safety blanket. Hardy-Har, Eddie’s still the baby of the bunch, the smallest and the most sensitive. Richie will probably get a good ol’ chuck out of that. _Let’s sacrifice Eddie._ Stupid.

“You alright back there?” His driver asks, peeking in the rearview.

Eddie’s been mumbling half of this to himself. Great, now he looks like a crazy person. “Fine,” He offers, short and clipped, faking a smile. “Thanks.”

He feels like he’s going to die before he even gets there. This isn’t even Richie’s actual apartment (which Eddie imagines looks like a _slightly_ neater version of his childhood bedroom). This is his fancy L.A. house. The one he bought with his _fuck-you-money_ and admitted to Eddie he only really stayed there when shooting something, rather than touring, which was rare. Not even a home away from home: an impersonal Airbnb. Eddie was not only about to ask him the biggest favor of his life (clown killing aside, Eddie had been the one who had to be talked into that one), but come out to him, in a fucking _summer home._

Still, his heart flutters when they pull up the driveway. He sees Richie is waiting on the porch for him, leaning against the tan exterior of his mini mansion. Well. Mini mansion might be an exaggeration, but it’s certainly big. Too big for Richie to be in all by himself. _He must be lonely._

Eddie hops out of the car, bag slung over his shoulder, and beams at the sight of him. He spent so long avoiding looking at him, not risking conjuring up that foreign yet familiar overwhelming feeling he’d been burying ever since he left. _If you stop looking at me, I’ll die_. The feeling bubbles up again, instinctively making Eddie want to take an antiacid and lay down. No. that’s the cowardly way of doing things. He’s brave now. Richie said so.

“Hey, Spaghetti,” Richie says, somehow looking effortlessly cool and…terrible. His button up is blinding, paired with a part of jean shorts that cut just above his knee. He’s big, like Eddie remembers, but he’s hairy too. “Welcome to casa del Tozier.”

He looks like Tom Selleck. Eddie swears he’s going to get hard right then and there and ruin everything before it’s even begun. Upon closer inspection, he sees Richie take a hit of his vape pen and his heart nearly stops. Okay, he’s good. That’ll turn him off. Richie provides the solution before Eddie can overthink the problem. Perfect. 

Eddie’s smile falls as he approaches. “You’re fucking _Juuling_? Seriously? Do you even know how dangerous that is? It’s not any better than a cigarette, it’s still nicotine! Have you actually read any of the news reports about this? _Health reports—_ ” He notices Richie’s grinning at him wickedly, watching him with wide eyes. “You did this to rile me up. You fuckwad.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Richie shrugs, still smiling.

They’re nearly face to face now—well, face to Richie’s gigantic chest—neither sure of what to do. If they should hug.

Fuck it. Eddie closes in, giving Richie a polite “bro-hug”, trying not to linger for too long. It doesn’t matter. Richie’s gay, he won’t call him out for shit like that. But, as Eddie keeps reminding himself, _just because you’re both gay doesn’t mean he’s into you._

“Come on,” Richie nods after they’ve parted, “I’ll give you the tour.”

* * *

The house is great, objectively, but it doesn’t feel like Richie’s. There are no posters of Richie’s films or shows on the walls. No awards, no memorabilia. The place has obviously been meticulously crafted by some well-paid interior designer. It really is just as impersonal as Eddie feared. Maybe that’s for the best. This can be impersonal. Eddie’s the master at impersonal.

They finish the tour. Eddie will be sleeping on the nicest bed he’s ever slept on in his entire life. There’s a maid service, so he doesn’t have to worry about anything, but he will. Richie will sleep across the hall from him. One giant sleepover.

Eddie’s sat at the kitchen island now, Richie standing behind the counter, making them both drinks. He carefully cuts slices of a lime, impressing Eddie even though he probably doesn’t mean to. Eddie fidgets with his hands, feeling impossibly small. He _knows_ Richie won’t kick him out, he’d be a hypocrite to. But. But what if he laughs in his face? What if he gets upset?

“Richie,” Eddie clears his throat, looking down at the counter rather than at Richie. “I have to tell you something.”

Richie stops what he’s doing and looks at Eddie carefully. “What’s up?”

Eddie takes a breath, meeting Richie’s gaze. Now or never. “Gay. I mean, I’m— _I’m gay._ Too, I guess. I’m gay too.”

Richie’s knife hits the cutting board with a loud thud. His eyes are wide, magnified even wider by his glasses. He doesn’t say anything, so Eddie just continues:

“And I have a favor to ask.”

“Oh.” Richie looks at him strangely. “Eds, I—I don’t know if I—I mean, I’m happy to show you how to use Grindr.”

Eddie scoffs. “ _No?_ No. That’s—I know how to use Grindr.” Hypothetically. “That’s not it. Richie, I told Myra I was gay and she didn’t believe me.”

“No shit?” Richie whistles, “Wow, she really does take after your mom. Sonia must have loved her. Daughter-in-law of the century.”

“Can you not do that? Can you not do that for literally, like, two seconds? She’s her own person, Rich.”

“Yeah, but she’s still a person who doesn’t believe you when you say _you’re gay_. Fuck, what else doesn’t she believe about you? I don’t know about you, but that reminds me a lot of a certain somebody.” Richie shrugs, Sonia going unnamed this time. Eddie’s grateful for that. “That’s not healthy, man.”

“Which is exactly why I left her.” Eddie sighs.

This isn’t new information, but Richie still gives pause, looking back down at his now poorly sliced lime. He picks up the knife and starts cutting again. “So. What’s the favor?”

Eddie keeps a watchful eye on Richie’s hands, “Can you put down the knife, first?”

“Why, afraid it’ll be so bad I’ll stab you?” He jabs playfully at the air just as he makes direct eye contact with Eddie’s scar. Whoops. “Sorry. Sorry, yeah, uh,” He sets it aside. “Go for it, Eds.”

“Myra said she’d believe me if I got a boyfriend. Or a partner, or whatever—whatever the fuck you call it when you’re forty-years-old and you’ve just realized you’re gay. And she won’t go through with the divorce otherwise. She’s—she’s stuck on everything I’m not telling her about Derry.”

Richie nods, understanding at least some of it. “So, you want me to play matchmaker? I know a few guys, Eddie, but that’s a pretty small favor to come all the way out to L.A. for.”

“No, I want you to listen to me,” Eddie braces for the worst as he says it. “I told her it was you.”

“You _what?_ ” Richie sputters.

“She wouldn’t even _consider_ a divorce, let alone a separation, until I had proof! She was going to fight me the whole way! So, I—I panicked. I said it was you. She knows who you are, she knows you’re gay, I just… I just told her we started dating back in Derry.” Eddie deflates slightly, knowing he’s in the wrong. “Your tweets—what you said, that inspired me to say something, so I did. And then your name came up, and I just went with it.”

Richie goes quiet for a moment, not looking at Eddie but rather at the counter, his brows furrowed deeply.

“Derry…” He says, low, shaking his head. “Doesn’t that fuck things up if you guys have like, what, a prenup? Infidelity or some shit? I mean, I’m the other man in this scenario. That doesn’t look good.”

“I’m still talking to my lawyer.” Eddie says, “It’s better than nothing.”

“So… what’s the favor, then? What do you need me to do?”

“I don’t know exactly.” He’s thought about it, certainly, but saying it to Richie’s face is harder than he ever imagined. “Take a few pictures with me? Let me stay here? Maybe we—maybe we facetime her, or something, and the longer I stay here, or in the area, at least, the more convincing it’ll be.”

“Convincing of what, Eds? You still haven’t really made it crystal clear.”

“I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend until I can get a divorce. We don’t even have to kiss or anything, just—just a few pictures, seriously.”

There’s a suffocating silence. They both look at each other, Eddie full of shame and hope, Richie, unreadable. After a moment, Richie shrugs, reaching for the tequila like he’d intended to before any of this hubbub started.

“Myra’s into tabloids, right?” Richie says, pouring them both drinks. Eddie nods in confirmation, spurring Richie on. “She’ll need more proof than that if we want to sell it. Especially long enough for your divorce to go through. God, Eds, ever heard of _Divorce Court._ Shit’s crazy.” He continues, sighing as he plops the limes in both of their drinks. “I’ll call my manager and my publicist, see about setting up some stuff with the paparazzi, get us in all those shitty magazines. Now _that,_ that’ll win her over. Seeing her ex-husband not only out, but _out_ so publicly all the blue hairs at bridge club will be talking about it for years. That’s a big fuck-you. That’s, like, the _biggest_ fuck-you in the universe.”

“No,” Eddie says, confused, as Richie hands him his drink. “Rich, that affects you, too. That’s your career.”

“They already know about me. Look, Eddie, I’d—” He stops himself, exhaling sharply. “If it’s what you need me to do, I’m happy to help. But I’m not doing this half measure. We’ll go for it. If that’s what you need, we’ll go for it.”

“Okay,” Eddie swallows thickly, following it with a swig of his drink. “Okay, thank you, Rich. I owe you.”

“Forget it, man,” Richie waves his hand, dismissing him. “My publicist has been begging me to get a boyfriend since the second I came out. It’s mutually beneficial.”

“Yeah, okay,” Eddie nods, “Mutually beneficial.”

* * *

That night, they eat takeout and stay up late (well, _New York late_ , since Eddie hasn’t adjusted to the time yet) watching _Ferris Bueller’s Day Off_ , because Richie brought it up and he should have to pay the price for getting _Twist and Shout_ stuck in Eddie’s head. Richie sings along to the entire parade scene, dancing in front of the TV until Eddie’s giggling at yelling at him, _Move, asshole! You’re blocking the view!_

He’s happier than he’s been in a long time. He wishes he hadn’t been such a coward, that he’d reached out to Richie immediately after leaving Derry. That he’d _left with him_. His heart aches. Every time Richie laughs, Eddie feels a weight lift off his chest. It’s the best sound. He misses that, making Richie laugh. There’s nothing more blissful than making your favorite person in the world laugh, than making him happy.

Eddie jerks off furiously in the shower after they both call it a night. He feels delirious, hard as a rock and only thinking _Richie, Richie, Richie._ He thinks about how big Richie is, the way he towers over him, the hair on his arms and thighs, and his stupid, stupid shirt. Eddie wants to ruin that shirt. He wants to make Richie happy. He can do both, certainly. Maybe if Richie keeps the shirt on… He thinks about Richie jerking them both off with his _gigantic, stupid, sexy hands—_

Eddie comes hard, hips thrusting against air as his release paints the shower wall. He has to bite his fist to keep from crying out, until he’s dissolved into nothing but whimpers. Coming down, he leans his head against the cool tile, his breath uneven.

“Stupid,” He mutters to himself, “You’re so fucking stupid.”

He rinses away the evidence and gets ready for bed. He’ll have to deal with it eventually. But not now.

* * *

Eddie wakes up early. It’s still dark out, the alarm clock next to him reads _5:36 A.M._ in ugly neon numbers. He knows if Richie’s anything like he used to be, he won’t be up for hours, but it’s not like he can just go back to sleep.

He has to think strategically, here. Pretending to date the person you’re in love with is a tricky thing. Eddie wishes he weren’t such a coward, that he could just tell Richie how he felt and just deal with the rejection and move on. He wishes he didn’t feel the need to prove himself to Myra, but it was that or tell her the _real_ truth. He rubs at his scar mindlessly, feeling over the raised texture. Eddie huffs a quiet laugh to himself, so he’s a coward _and_ a liar. _Great combo, Eds,_ he thinks to himself, _no one will ever want you._

Enough of that. He has to distract himself. He knows Myra will already be awake in New York. He shoots her a text he meant to send the night before.

To Myra: Sent at 5:40 A.M.  
_Made it to Richie’s. Everything good. I’ll start talking to the lawyers sometime this week. Most conditions should be covered in the prenup. Hope you’re doing well._

From Myra: Received at 5:42 A.M.  
_I don’t like that you’re running away from me._

Eddie freezes, reading the words over and over again. He’s very good at running. He’d been told that, once.

To Myra: Drafted at 5:43 A.M.  
_What choice do I have?_

To Myra: Sent at 5:45 A.M.  
_I will touch base with you later._

Well. That isn’t what he needs at all. He pulls his pillow over his face, letting out a muffled yell against the fabric. He has to do something. Has to get his mind off it.

He’s not going to jerk off again, because that feels rude at this point, especially when Richie is sleeping right across the hall. He could make breakfast, but who knows how long Richie will be asleep. It’ll just get cold.

He resolves to get some work done on his laptop. It keeps him occupied for a good bit, but not enough. By the time eight o’clock rolls around, Eddie’s exhausted all of his busywork and Richie is still sleeping. Fuck it. He gets dressed, grabs his phone and the spare key Richie gave him, and decides to go out for a run.

He misses the city. It’s only been a day, sure, but Richie’s neighborhood is far too quiet. He politely waves at neighbors walking their dogs and getting the morning paper, even recognizes a few from TV, but he doesn’t say anything. Richie must really enjoy his privacy here. They couldn’t go one night in Derry without him getting recognized. But, to be fair, they did think it was the clown.

 _Don’t think about the clown. Don’t think about the fucking clown._ Eddie stops in his tracks, nearly doubling over with the rush of terror brought on just by the memory of It. He can feel the rush of wind from the claw nearly slicing into him, nearly impaling him right over Richie. _If I had died in front of Richie,_ he thinks, _I would have never forgiven myself._ Then, an even worse thought, _there would have been no way to forgive._

He walks the rest of the way back to the house, feeling defeated. He has to remind himself they killed It. Eddie was there, he held Its little heart in his hand with the rest of them and crushed It. They all survived. With their odds, it felt like a miracle.

Richie’s still asleep by the time he gets back. Eddie’s sweat and panicked so much he feels like he’s on fire. There’s a pool in the backyard, big and cool and _clean_. He grabs a towel from the bathroom, changes into his swim trunks, and gives it a go.

He floats for a long time, grateful for sunblock as his front faces the harsh reality of Californian sunrays. It’s relaxing. Better than he thought it would be. By 9:30 he can faintly hear Richie talking on the phone in the kitchen, loud as always, but comforting all the same. He can’t quite hear what he’s saying, exactly, but he can hear the tone of his voice, the low rumble of his laugh. Eddie feels weightless.

* * *

Eddie makes his way into the kitchen, towel slung around his shoulders. Richie’s still on his call, so he tries to be quiet as not to bother him.

“Hey. Baby steps.” Eddie hears Richie say to the unknown caller.

Richie’s pouring himself a cup of coffee with his phone tucked under his ear, pressed up against his shoulder. He looks scruffy in the morning, dressed in pajama pants, a t-shirt, and a robe. _He’s so handsome,_ Eddie thinks, wanting to kiss the coffee taste right out of his mouth.

Eddie suddenly has this thought—or maybe it’s more a vision—of the two of them waking up together. Richie begs to kiss Eddie with morning breath, and Eddie tells him to brush his teeth, but he kisses Richie anyways. After, they make breakfast and eat it at a little table in a direct patch of sunlight. It’s perfect. Everything with Richie is perfect.

Eddie feels like a creep now, just watching him and daydreaming. He clears his throat, making himself known.

“Anyways, I— Oh, hey, Eddie’s here,” He turns his head to look at Eddie, then does a double take and stops in his tracks. If Eddie didn’t know any better, he’d think Richie had been reading his mind by the way he freezes. _He knows he knows he knows—_ “I’ll call you back— _Ow!_ ”

The coffee has overflowed, spilling all over Richie’s hand holding the cup. He jumps back, hitting the hang up button and shaking his burnt hand. Eddie rushes in, playing nurse, just like when they were kids. He switches the cold water on and sticks Richie’s hand under the sink, holding his wrist just a second too long.

Richie hasn’t said anything. Eddie just pulls back, face flushed. If Richie asks, he’ll blame it on the sun. “Just, uh, just keep it there for a second.”

“Uh huh.” Richie nods, concentrating on his hand.

“You okay?” Eddie plays with the ends of the towel, giving him something to focus on.

“Peachy.” He finally looks up at Eddie, “Listen, I’m taking you to brunch.”

“Richie, you don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, we do, because we’ve got a reservation and I’ve already called the paparazzi. Should be news by noon.” Richie’s gaze lingers on his bare chest for a moment. Maybe Eddie’s just imagining it. “Now, go on, Eduardo, get dressed. And look cute, you’re going to get your picture taken.”

“Okay,” Eddie breathes, a bit stunned. “That was fast—okay. Yeah. Thank you, Rich.”

“Anytime. Well,” Richie pauses, putting on his _thinking_ face. “Not _anytime,_ ‘cause this is a pretty specific scenario, but you know what I mean.”

“I do.” Eddie desperately wants to reach out and touch him, or hug him, but he can’t. Instead, he goes to hose off and get dressed, nervously awaiting the next step.

* * *

They’re seated immediately. Eddie didn’t even have to yell at anyone. He’s a bit mystified, suddenly realizing that Richie’s celebrity status might have more perks than he initially thought.

The table is right by a large open window, prime viewing for paparazzi and other passersby. He feels a bit like a caged animal, put on display for the world to see. Thankfully he’s sitting on the side without a scar, knowing he’ll be too fixated on it once the photos come out. People snap cellphone pictures and mutter around them. Richie tells him to just focus and ignore them, otherwise it’ll _look too deliberate. We’re on a mission, Spaghetti!_

He used to hate that nickname. Now it’s comforting.

“Relax, man,” Richie says, not looking up from the menu. “We’re on a date. Don’t look so stiff. They’ll think I kidnapped you.”

Eddie already knows what he’s eating. He looked at the menu online the second Richie told them where they were going. “Why couldn’t we just, I don’t know, go for a walk or something? Go to the zoo?”

“No way, Eds, the zoo smells like absolute _shit_. At least here they’ve got gourmet _avocado toast,_ or whatever. That healthy shit you like.” Richie hums, only glancing at him sparingly. “Think about it like this: we’re spies on a mission, and that mission is to piss off your ex-wife. And you know what’s a big _fuck you_ to an ex-wife? Going to brunch with your new beau. You ever go to brunch with Myra?”

Eddie thinks for a moment. “No…”

“But did she ever _ask_ you to go to brunch with her? Take some Instagram-able food pics?”

Countless times. He nods.

“See,” Richie continues. “That’ll really send the message home. _This,_ ” Richie gestures between them, “This is _real_ love. You won’t have brunch with her, but you’ll have brunch with me.”

 _Real love._ Eddie wishes that were true for both of them. “How the fuck did you know that? About brunch?”

“I couldn’t sleep so I stalked all of her social media last night. Saw all of her _missing my hubby! Hashtag brunch life!_ Shit. Gotta get inside the enemy’s head, Eds.” Richie taps his own head for emphasis. “This is war.”

“This isn’t war, asshole.” Eddie rolls his eyes. “This is my divorce.”

“Same thing.”

They order, getting their coffees soon after. People are taking pictures outside, but Eddie does his best to block them out. At some point, they have to make the leap. They just look like friends catching up. They’re supposed to be in love, which shouldn’t be that hard—

“Tell me something.” Eddie says to stop from panicking.

“Like what?” Richie blinks, brows furrowing.

“Literally fucking anything.”

“I got a vasectomy.” He says plainly, as if they were discussing the weather.

Eddie makes a face, unsure of why that was Richie’s go to piece of information.

“Okay?” Eddie furrows his own brows, mirroring him. “I also got a vasectomy. Sorry we can’t have kids? We’re also both gay, so I don’t know who we’re impregnating—unless we want to use a surrogate, but that’s stupid, there are so many kids already out there, we should just adopt—”

“Eds, I love this fiction you’re crafting. Tell me more.” Richie rests his chin on his palms, watching Eddie intently.

Eddie freezes, blushing hard. “Just a hypothetical we. A royal we. Fuck off.”

Richie reaches out and takes Eddie’s hand where it’s resting on the table. Fuck. _Fuck fuck fuck._ Richie is touching him. Richie is holding his hand. Eddie’s never thought of himself as a small person, but next to Richie he feels tiny. Everything about Richie is so _big_ , explosive, and full of life. 

Eddie reminds himself what they’re doing, why they’re here in the first place. He relaxes into the touch, lacing their fingers together. Richie smiles. Eddie swears it lights up the room.

Cameras flash away outside. For a moment, even if it’s brief, he can pretend this is real, that Richie feels the same, even if Eddie knows he doesn’t. That’s why this is fake. _It’s just pretend,_ Eddie thinks to himself, _and that’s all it will ever be._

“What are the others going to say?” The _losers,_ Eddie means, “When this all gets leaked and we haven’t told them anything…”

“Oh, I was on the phone with Bev this morning, don’t worry about it.” Richie waves his free hand, dismissive. “Explained the whole thing. She’s filling everyone in, I just told her, y’know, you need your privacy.”

 _Does he?_ It might be nice to have the rest of the gang in his corner, but at the same time, he knows they’d see right through him. As long as they don’t talk about it, it’ll be fine, right? No one can call Eddie on his shit if they don’t know the extent of it, how much Eddie truly loves Richie.

Richie’s thumb strokes over the back of Eddie’s hand and Eddie loses his train of thought. His mind returns to playing its regularly scheduled endless thought: _Richie Richie Richie Richie._

Later, after their meals, they exit to a rush of questions, paps following them close behind. Richie’s still holding his hand, walking close, their shoulders pressing together. _Richie! Richie, look here! Is this your boyfriend? Richie, who is it! Richie, is this why you haven’t gone back on tour yet? Richie._

“Trust me.” Richie mutters, just low enough for Eddie to hear. He suppresses a shiver.

“Okay?” Eddie whispers back, just as Richie presses a kiss atop Eddie’s head. The paparazzi go nuts, flashbulbs going off all around them. Eddie just grins, knowing it’ll be the only time he’ll be able to get away with it.

* * *

Myra calls that evening, _late_ for New York standards. The photos are out, Richie’s not in the top trending on twitter but he’s certainly being talked about, and he’s already posted a picture of the two of them on Instagram holding hands, captioned: _back off, he’s all mine._ Eddie will jerk off to that later, probably, but that’s beside the point. _Focus on Myra, you horny little gremlin, Richie isn’t going anywhere_.

“You embarrassed me.” She says, and he can tell instantly she’s been crying.

“You didn’t believe me.” He keeps his tone as even as possible. He doesn’t want any of this used against him. “I just went out on a date with my boyfriend.” The word makes him giddy. _Focus!_ “It’s not my fault he’s famous.”

“I never said it was.” Then, “Eddie, we wouldn’t have to go through all of this if you would just tell me the truth.”

“I can’t tell you the truth!” He snaps, then takes a breath, calming himself. “Myra, I don’t want to do it this way, either. I’m not lying to you. I’m not trying to hurt you—I’m trying to save you, really, I promise. You don’t want to know what happened in Derry.”

“You don’t trust me? After all of these years, you don’t trust me?” This is starting to escalate into a fight. “And _boyfriend_ , really… You’re too old to be saying _boyfriend._ All it looks like to me, Eddie, is a publicity stunt. Is he using you? Is he trying to advance his career? You can tell me. You can get on a flight back home, and we can talk about it. All of it. Including Derry.”

“Myra,” He exhales, finding his footing, “I will consider telling you what happened if you agree to move forward with the divorce.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “I need some time.”

“Fine.” Eddie says, nodding. _More time with Richie._

They say their goodbyes and hang up. Richie pops his head in the doorway, from where he’d presumably been listening in the hall.

“So…” He drags out the _o_ , “How was it?”

“She doesn’t believe us. Yet.”

Richie clicks his tongue. “Yikes. You want a drink?”

“Absolutely.”

* * *

They sit out on Richie’s nicely furnished back patio, relaxing as the sun starts to set. It’s tough convincing Myra to listen to him, that he has any authority over himself, but Richie helps him forget. He tells story after story, making Eddie laugh each time, yelling _fuck you! No way that’s true!_ They’re back in their old rhythm in no time.

“No wonder she doesn’t believe. I’ve still never ever had sex with a guy.” Eddie muses, nursing his beer. He’s happily buzzed, more content than ever to be in Richie’s presence. Maybe that’s why he feels like he can tell him anything, a return to sleepover secrecy, chaotic intimacy in the middle of the night. “I’ve never even... y’know.” He makes a crude two-finger gesture, regretting it immediately. “Mine or anyone else’s, I mean—” _Aside from doctors,_ he wants to say, but how unsexy is that? Richie doesn't want to hear about his countless medical anxieties. “Let alone the real thing.”

Richie looks like he’s about to say something, but seemingly thinks better, shutting himself up with a swig of his drink. “What, Myra never pop a thumb up there?” Eddie shoots him a withering look. Richie raises his hands in defense. “Kidding! Kidding.”

“Gross.” Eddie mumbles into his beer bottle.

“Eddie, if you think that’s gross, you’re not going to like the other stuff we do.” Richie says, and Eddie quickly feels embarrassed. _Gross._ He wants Richie to know he doesn’t really think it is. He wants Richie to know a lot of things. After a moment, Richie adds, “You know there’s not a quota you’ve gotta reach, right? No one’s checking how many stamps you have on your gay card.”

“Fuck off,” He waves a dismissive hand, replying in his usual not-so-amused (but secretly amused) tone. “I’m serious. I wish I’d realized… I don’t know. Jesus, I don’t even know what it was. I just remember…” He pauses, thinking for a moment. Finding their tokens, he had felt a familiar shame, one he hadn’t felt in years. “Getting back to Derry and suddenly remembering my collection of stolen Playgirls I used to hide under my mattress.” Sonia never found them. Thank god. Richie looks like some of those men, large and hairy and oh-so-charming. “Like flipping a switch.” 

“I get it.” Richie nods, staring down at his drink. “I knew—I knew I was gay, but I couldn’t ever trace the point of origin, you know? I spent so long hiding it, and shoving it down, because I felt like—I felt like it didn’t come from me. Like somebody had said _Whoops! Here you go, kid, take it or leave it!_ I never thought it was really _me._ ” He shifts his weight, visibly having trouble speaking about it. “Then we got back, and that part of me came back. The part I’d lost. I didn’t feel so divided any more, you know?”

“I know exactly what you mean. I wasn’t myself. I wasn’t the person I should have been.” Eddie shakes his head, looking at Richie carefully. He can’t see his eyes with his head ducked like this. He wishes he could.

“Okay, okay,” Richie sits up straight, giving Eddie a friendly pat on the back. “No more sad stuff. We’re ourselves now, right, Eds? Come on, talk to me about never having fingers up your ass, I’m dying to hear all about it.”

Eddie playfully shoves his arm, his laugh giving him away. “Seriously, Rich, fuck off.”

“No, _I’m_ serious. You’re missing out on one of the great joys of sex. The prostate? Four stars on Yelp. Or is it five? I don’t remember the rating system.”

“It’s not like I haven’t _tried._ ” Eddie admits before he can think better of it. “I just…”

“Just what? Come on man, I won’t make fun of you.”

“Not true.”

“No,” Richie focuses on him, “I’m serious. Let me be your sex therapist for the evening. Tell me what’s on your mind, Mr. K.”

Fuck it. He’s just buzzed enough to say it. He started this conversation anyway. “I… clench up.”

“You _what?_ ” Richie cups a hand behind his ear. “Sorry, can you repeat that for the class?”

“Richie!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Richie lets out a little wheezy laugh, raising his hands in surrender. “You _clench?_ ”

“Yes, Richie, I _clench._ ” Eddie glares at him even harder. “I don’t know how else to put it! I get too tense. You happy? Got all your chucks out?”

“Am I _happy?_ That you can’t get your rocks off? Of course not, Eds, I’ve got a heart,” He taps his chest for emphasis. “You saying _clench up_ , however…”

“Fuck you. I can get my rocks off.” Eddie shoots him the finger as a little extra _fuck you_.

“But not like you should. It’s a game changer, man.”

“Even if I—” Eddie huffs, trying to pull it together. “Even if I tried, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. And don’t recommend porn to me, because I’ve tried that, and I cannot tell you how many fucking computer viruses I got. Not worth it. Not fucking worth it.”

“What do you need?” Richie sounds a little more serious as he asks, “A tutorial? A _coach?_ ”

“A coach?” Eddie repeats, then opens his mouth before his brain can stop him, “I mean—Rich, if you have any pointers, I’m happy to, uh,” He takes a sip of his beer, trying to hide his blush, “Happy to hear them.”

“What, you want my playbook?”

They could do it. They’re already so close, they’re already talking about sex, it could _happen._ Eddie can always laugh it off as a joke, say he’s drunker than he is even though he feels dead sober. Richie had once told him he was brave. Sex and (clown) murder are two completely different things, sure, but there can be overlap. Eddie can extend his bravery past life or death.

Except this does feel like life or death. If Richie rejects him, then the fantasy is over. No more holding out hope. He’ll burst the bubble and he’ll have to go home with his tail between his legs and face Myra and—

Fuck it. Fuck it! He sets his beer aside and swings a leg over Richie’s lap, effectively straddling him.

“Eds, whoa,” Richie fumbles to discard his beer, his hands raising as to not touch Eddie anywhere incriminating. “What’s this?”

“I’m a hands-on learner.” Eddie takes Richie’s hands in his, placing them on his hips. “But you have to promise to not make fun of me after.”

Richie’s eyes go wide. “After what? I don’t even know what’s happening.”

Eddie takes a breath, bracing himself. “After this.”

He kisses him, placing both hands on either side of his face. Richie tastes like beer and nicotine, and it makes Eddie’s stomach a little sick at first, but then it clicks that it’s _Richie._ He’s kissing Richie. It starts clumsy, Eddie never really having kissed anyone but Myra. After a moment, Richie takes the lead, his fingers digging into Eddie’s hips.

Soon Richie’s tongue is in his mouth and Eddie’s in heaven. He lets his jaw drop further, allowing Richie to explore. It’s good. Too good. He rolls his hips involuntarily and Richie makes a low noise into his mouth. _Good. That’s even better._

“Wait,” Richie pulls back, frantic, “Wait, Eddie, are you sure?”

He’s never been more sure about anything in his life. It’s a simple truth: he will always want Richie.

“Yeah,” Eddie nods, “I’m really sure. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Richie nods back, then, half-mumbled under his breath he mutters, “We’re going to have sex.” He repeats it, more determined, “We’re going to have sex.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says again, grinding down against Richie’s thigh. “We’re going to have sex.”

Eddie goes in to kiss him again. Richie puts a firm hand on his chest and stops him. “Eddie. Hey. You’re not having your first gay experience like this.”

“What? You literally just said—”

“No, shit, uh” Richie shuts his eyes tight and shakes his head. “I mean outside, where like, a fucking drone could decide to fly over or something.”

Eddie makes a face. “A _drone_?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know. I’m just thinking. It should be like…” Richie searches for the word. “Special? Not this.”

Eddie takes a breath, placing his hands on Richie’s broad ( _why is he so fucking big)_ shoulders and making direct eye contact. What he really wants to say is _of course it’s special, it’s you,_ but the words get caught in his throat. “So, take me to your room and give me something special.”

Richie’s room is a lot neater than Eddie would have anticipated. He doesn’t even get distracted by the stray clothes on the floor because Richie is _kissing_ him. Richie is touching him all over, making perfect little noises when Eddie presses against him just right. Eddie fumbles to undo his pants while Richie starts unbuttoning his own shirt. They’re down to their underwear in seconds, Eddie in his plain briefs and Richie in _Looney Toons_ boxers.

“Were you planning on getting laid today?” Eddie teases, looking down at Richie’s choice of underwear. God. He can see the hard line of Richie’s cock jutting out against the fabric. All he wants to do is touch it. Then, he remembers he can.

“No—” Richie cuts himself off with a quiet yelp as Eddie’s hand dips below the waistband and starts stroking him. “Jesus fucking _Christ._ ”

“Actually, my name’s Eddie.” He leans in, kissing and licking the hairy expanse of Richie’s chest. It’s filthy. He loves it.

His technique isn’t spectacular. He goes off what he knows he likes, licking the flat of his palm when it all feels too dry, twisting his wrist. It doesn’t matter, though, because Richie’s eating it up, pressing his cheek to the top of Eddie’s head and moaning.

“Fuck you,” Richie wheezes out, clearly not meaning it. “Oh, never mind, fuck _me_ , oh my god. _Oh my god,_ I can’t believe…” He pulls his head away, “Do me a favor.”

Eddie looks up at him curiously. “I’m already doing you a favor.”

“Put your fingers in my mouth.”

“Rich, that’s gross,” Eddie scrunches his nose, still working him all the same.

“No, Eddie,” He shakes his head. “I promise it’s not gross. None of this is gross. It’s so good, I want you to know it’s good, please let me show you it’s good.”

Richie’s _begging_ him. It makes Eddie so hot he may as well be on fire. He lifts his hand from where it had been lamely resting on Richie’s hip and carefully places it on Richie’s chin, just barely brushing his bottom lip. Richie ducks his head, sucking in his index and middle, his jaw going slack.

Eddie shivers, feeling Richie tongue over his digits. He hides his face in Richie’s chest, knowing if he looks it’ll be over too quickly. Richie hasn’t even touched him yet and he feels like he’s going to come any minute.

“You feel so big in my hand, Rich.” He mutters, punctuating the thought with a clumsy kiss to Richie’s pec.

Richie moans around Eddie’s fingers, drool sliding out of his mouth and down his chin. It’s all objectively disgusting, except it _isn’t_ , and Eddie’s harder than he’s ever been in his life.

Eddie speeds up his strokes until Richie’s coming, hot spurts of his release landing on Eddie’s knuckles. Richie pulls his head back, letting Eddie’s fingers drop back to his chest.

“ _Shit shit shit!”_ Richie cries out in a harsh whisper, rolling his hips as he finishes. Eddie groans at the friction, though it offers little relief. “Oh, _fuck, Eddie._ ”

Even the way he says Eddie’s name makes him all gooey inside. He wants to make Richie happy for the rest of his life. He knows Richie would do the same—if he felt the same.

_No, don’t think that. You just made him come. Look at that, Kaspbrak! First time with a guy and you’re already getting the hang of it! You made him come. He’s got to feel something. It’s got to mean something._

Richie gently pulls Eddie’s hand off him. Eddie wipes the mess on both of his hands on Richie’s boxers, making a face as he tries to get it all off. “I just improved your shitty clothes.”

“Shut up.” Richie breathes, grabbing Eddie’s face with both of his hands and pulling him in for a searing kiss. He walks them towards the mattress until the end hits the back of Eddie’s knees, compelling him to sit. He does so, watching in awe as Richie drops to his knees.

“Jesus Christ.” Eddie mutters, eyes wide.

Richie hooks his fingers into briefs, preparing to roll them down. “Actually, my friends call me Richie. Wait—shit,” he runs his fingers over the wet spot at the front of them, over Eddie’s cock, “Look at this,” He sounds amazed. Eddie doesn’t think he has any reason to be. “Eddie, you’re so wet.”

“Shut up.” Eddie grits out, embarrassed. He doesn’t know if he’s being made fun of, if it’s something that Richie would even like—

Richie puts his mouth over the spot, running his tongue over Eddie’s cock through the fabric. Eddie instinctively reaches out, grabbing a fistful of Richie’s hair. It’s never felt this good before.

“Richie,” He moans, “ _Please_.”

Richie pulls back, finally rolling Eddie’s briefs down. “Loud and clear, Spaghetti.”

“Don’t call me Spaghetti when you’re— _oh. Oh fuck._ ”

Richie swallows him nearly to the root and Eddie sees stars. He falls back onto his elbows, moaning unabashedly.

He should be embarrassed, but he isn’t. He feels fucking amazing, and the sight of his cock disappearing in and out of Richie’s mouth makes it even better. Eddie’s gotten blowjobs before, he’s not a complete prude. Well, not many, but even then, he’s never had anything like this. Sex with Richie makes everything feel new again.

Richie takes him in hand, shifting to lick and suck at his balls. Eddie’s legs involuntarily kick the air, a whine escaping his throat. He wants to say something like _Richie you don’t have to do that_ or _Richie please keep doing that_ but it won’t come out. All can do is tighten one hand in Richie’s hair, the other in Richie’s sheets.

Richie switches his movements, mouth returning to Eddie’s cock and his hand fondling Eddie’s balls. Eddie shivers as he drops his head back, staring unfocused at the ceiling. No one has ever made him feel this good.

“Richie…” He finally manages, forcing himself back up to look at him. Richie looks back at him, their eyes meeting. It’s enough to make Eddie babble, “I’m going to come. I’m serious, I’m going to come. Richie—”

Richie pulls away just in time that Eddie’s release lands on his face, all over his glasses. Eddie nearly yells as he comes, clawing at the sheets as he does.

“How the fuck are you so good at that?” Eddie breathes, feeling absolutely boneless. He’s spent.

“I’m a man of many hidden talents.” Richie wipes his mouth with the back of his hand but leaves his glasses as they are. It _should_ annoy Eddie, but it doesn’t. “Congrats, Eds, you’ve lost your gay v-card.”

“Rich, we didn’t even go _all_ the way.” He winces as he says it, knowing that it’s different. Sex with men is different. Thankfully Richie has a quick comeback, like he always does.

“Whoa, hey, Peggy Sue. We went _plenty_ of the way. I would have gone to town on your ass if I didn’t already know you were too anal to bottom. Pun intended.”

“How the fuck do you know that?” He’s right. They already had this conversation on the patio. Doesn’t matter, Eddie will still argue with him for the sake of arguing. “I could like it. I could be _great_ at it.”

“Well, we—” Richie furrows his brows, visibly catching himself, and stands. “You have plenty of time to figure that out.”

 _We. We, we, we, say we you fucking coward—_ “Yeah. Guess I do.” _Fuck._

Richie rummages for his phone in his discarded pants. Eddie stares at him from the bed, brows furrowed. Once he finds it, he lifts it, as if to take a selfie. It takes a moment for Eddie to realize Richie is holding Eddie’s phone and not his own.

“Rich, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Just trust me. I have an idea.” He stands, snapping a photo of Eddie from the chest up. He must look so wrecked, all blotchy and sweaty. Eddie feels dizzy. _Richie did that to him._

He loves Richie and Richie might just love him, at least he might if Eddie can still equate sex to love.

Richie turns around and takes one last picture, this time a selfie with the both of them, then hands the phone back to Eddie. “If that doesn’t prove it to her, I don’t know what will.”

Eddie freezes, his stomach churning. _Her._ Richie still thinks this is part of the game. The ruse. Whatever the _fuck_ it is they’re doing. Eddie’s heart drops like a lead balloon. “Ha,” He forces out, trying not to cry. Why the fuck is he about to cry? _Stupid stupid stupid._ “Yeah, great idea. She’ll hate that.”

“Come on, it’s not like it’s stranger jizz.” Richie sits down next to him, wiping off his face with his once discarded shirt. “It’s Eddie jizz. She knows Eddie jizz.”

“She hasn’t seen my jizz in a long time. And, _more importantly,_ what about when she leaks them to the press?” She wouldn’t. She might. Fuck, he doesn’t know, he’s just trying not to cry in front of Richie.

“I’ve looked worse.” Richie shrugs.

Eddie finally wills himself to move, standing up to gather his things. He’s got the rest of his night all laid out: piss, shower, cry, and go the fuck to sleep. Separately, and in that order. He’s about to exit when Richie stops him.

“Wait—” He says sheepishly, “You could, uh. You could sleep here tonight, if you want.”

Eddie’s stunned. What does Richie want from him? He says the first thing that comes to mind. “You snore.”

Richie smiles a little at that. “Worse than Myra?”

_Stop saying her name. This isn’t about her._

“No. Probably not.” He shakes his head, turning back to the door.

He has to be smart about this. There are so many ways this could go wrong, it’s so fucking _risky._ Why did he do this? _Stop thinking with your dick! You’re better than that!_

He realizes then it’s not just that—he’s thinking with his _heart_. _Stupid._ Eddie used to be a logical person. Richie’s fucked all of that up.

He steels himself, putting one foot in front of the other. “Goodnight, Rich.”

He doesn’t cry until he gets to his room.


	2. I dare you to come closer (let me see you in the light)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! Brief emeto warning at the end of the first section! Tags have been updated as well
> 
> Chapter title from Caroline Shut Up by Caroline Polachek, here's a full playlist I wrote to that you guys might enjoy https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3wbR1VCVBSFQMa5YmAhJ6o?si=ogYV-X7UQ7G9wTiaef8l6A
> 
> Thanks again to Jace for betaing!

Richie Tozier is a fucking idiot. A big, fucking idiot.

Richie watches blurrily as Eddie closes the door behind him. He can’t tell quite yet if his gaze is obscured by the tears bubbling up or the come on his glasses— _oh fuck, his glasses!_ He grabs his phone and races to the bathroom, quickly googling _how to get jizz off of glasses_ and turning the text size as high as possible. From across the hall, he can hear Eddie’s shower start up, meaning he has about fifteen minutes to freak out to someone other than himself.

“Siri, call Bill.” He instructs as he starts soaping up his lenses. _Stupid._ Bill’s probably the least emotionally intelligent of the seven of them, but he’ll be awake.

“ _Which Bill would you like me to call?_ ” Siri replies, showing Richie three options: an old hookup, the man himself, and _Bill fucking Murray._ Richie panics, quickly clicking Denbrough and feeling queasy at the thought of accidentally dialing a comedy legend to talk about the dick he just sucked. And not just any dick! Eddie’s dick. Eddie’s perfect fucking dick, which he’ll never see again because he just fucked up so fucking bad—

“Hey, Trashmouth,” Bill answers after the first couple rings, sounding pleasant as ever, “It’s kind of late. Everything okay?”

_No, it’s not, it’s really not._ He wants to cry, wants to tell Bill everything, but instead he just says “Hey, big Bill. Would you believe Siri almost just dialed Bill Murray?”

“Wow, Rich.” Bill huffs a quiet, dry laugh. “Nice brag. Seriously, what’s up, man?”

Richie exhales. Bill sees right through his deflection. _Fuck it, Rich, just say it_. “So,” He starts, terrified he’ll lose his nerve. It comes out anyways: “I just had sex with Eddie.”

“ _What_?” Bill exclaims, “When?”

He covers the answerable questions in quick succession. “Uh, approximately five minutes ago. I’m washing his come off my glasses right now. He started it.”

“Okay?” This is clearly baffling the poor guy, “Congratulations? I know it’s… I know—”

_He knows._ Of course he does. Richie doesn’t need to hear Bill’s fumbling sympathy about just how obvious and pathetic his love for Eddie is. “Not congrats, actually. He left my room the second he was done. Motherfucker came and went! Honestly, I don’t know what the fuck actually just happened. I’m freaking out.”

“Richie, I appreciate you calling someone, and not, um, spiraling…” Bill begins, and Richie can hear him say _but_ before it even comes, “ _But_ why call me? We’ve… we’ve never, y’know, talked about it.”

“It?” Richie jokes weakly, “It’s dead, dude. Of course we don’t talk about _It_.”

“Don’t—” Bill cuts himself off with a sigh, then firmly adds. “You know what I mean.” 

He does. He really does. He didn’t tell any of them as children, and as adults… he really only trusted Bev with his secret. And then Patty came into their lives and it felt so nice to tell a stranger—maybe not a _stranger,_ but someone who didn’t know who he was before. Coming out to them was the first step, then coming out to the public. He still won’t discuss it with the other guys unless they bring it up. Except now it’s too out of control, and he’s the one crossing the line, feeling vulnerable and exposed.

“Richie,” Bill repeats, “What do you want me to say? Did you just need to tell someone?”

“I was going to call Patty, but I know if I wake her up, I’ll wake Stan up and it’ll be a whole _thing._ Ben somehow gets it and completely _doesn’t_ get it at the same time, and even then he’ll talk to Bev, who I don’t want to talk to right now because she’s going to tell me some _I told you so_ bullshit.” Richie rambles, scrubbing too hard at his glasses. “I mean, no offense, but ideally I’d call Mike in this situation. I have no idea where the fuck he is and if he’s even in the country or awake or _willing_ to wake up for a call from dear old Trashmouth.”

“Oh,” Bill says, “Mike’s here if you want to talk to him.”

“Mikey’s there?” Richie realizes two things in that moment: the first, that Mike’s in California with Bill and didn’t even tell _anyone_ , which feels very suspicious; and the second is that, yes, while he has been talking in circles to justify why he called Bill instead of one of their more emotionally capable friends, his real reasoning is clear: he doesn’t want anyone one to see through him, to _know_ how he really feels.

“Richie,” Mike starts, and Richie’s panicking, his chest feeling tight. “Is everything okay?”

Mike is too smart. Richie is too stupid. They’ll just collide and make a mess.

“Richie,” Mike continues calmly, already knowing too much. “You know you can tell us anything, right? No judgment. We’re here for you. We love you.”

_We. We we we. Fuck._ Richie makes a split decision.

“Hey, Eds just turned off the shower,” A lie, “I got to go. Love you, too, buddy.” He hangs up before Mike can respond, feeling sick and guilty. He sets his glasses aside and makes it to the toilet just in time to puke.

_All worked up over little ol’ Eds,_ he thinks, and vomits again.

* * *

It’s always been Eddie.

Several months ago, Richie, terrified by something he suddenly _could_ name, arrived back home in Derry, Maine for a sudden reunion of old friends. Seeing Ben and Bev brought back a lot of memories, many that he’d spent his adult life longing to regain. With them came a sense of relief.

It was, however, the sight of Eddie that sent him reeling. _Spaghetti_. _Eds_. Every one-night stand, every bad date, every lingering glance across a crowded party made sense now. He had a type, and the _prototype_ was standing right in front of him, beautiful as ever. _Oh._ He thought. _How did I not know it was you?_

He really was beautiful, wasn’t he? And brave, and smart, and still so funny. Funnier than Rich, but he’d never admit it. Richie could stare at him for hours, his mind an endless loop of the same thought: _If I stop looking at you, I’ll die._

It was then he knew what they had been. Or, what Richie had felt. That day in the hammock, the tangling of their legs. The _bridge,_ their initials carved in huge block letters, Richie’s feelings far too big to fit anywhere else. He always felt he was bursting at the seams with it, barely holding it together. He wanted to shout it from the rooftops. _I’m in love with you I’m in love with you I’m in love with you!_

He doesn’t remember what he saw in the deadlights. He remembers Eddie, on top of him, saving his life. _I think I killed it!_ It took everything in him not to kiss him then and there. Ben had woken Beverly by kissing her, why hadn’t Eddie done the same? Instead, he held him to his chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. He would eventually realize that was just enough to save him.

Later, in the quarry, Eddie would clean the dirt off his glasses and hand them back to him, their fingers brushing and sending a shiver up Richie’s spine. There was nothing either of them could say. Nothing Richie could say without ruining everything. Especially not:

_I loved you. I love you. I think I’ll always love you._ But he wouldn’t possibly say it out loud.

* * *

Eddie’s up before him. His door’s open and his room unoccupied by the time Richie finally pulls himself out of bed. Richie gets dressed enough, brushes his teeth because he knows Eddie will complain if he doesn’t, and wanders downstairs.

Eddie’s pouring two cups of coffee. Richie raises a brow: _does he have company over?_ Before, stupidly, he realizes, _oh fuck, I’m the company._

“Hey.” Richie announces himself, shoving his hands awkwardly in his pants pockets.

Eddie’s back is to him. _Fuck, even his back is sexy._ Richie can’t tear his eyes away. Especially now that he knows what Eddie sounds like, what Eddie _tastes_ like, he’s fucked. There’s no going back from what they did. 

“How do you take your coffee?” Eddie doesn’t even turn around. Why the fuck does that make Richie want him more? He really does love everything about Eddie: the curve of his neck, the expanse of his back under his too-big t-shirt, the dark hair on his arms. He loves every inch of him.

“Two sugars.” He answers after a moment of hesitation. “Eddie, look, about last night—"

Eddie faces him, the two cups in hand, and Richie’s words die in his throat. _He’s so beautiful._ His big brown eyes, his chiseled jaw, his crooked teeth—Richie’s heart is doing summersaults in his chest. Richie barely registers his mug being handed to him, but he holds it anyways.

“Last night,” Eddie picks up where Richie left off, and Richie goes unbearably still. _Fuck._ He had planned on having the first word. “I’ve never done anything like last night.”

“We don’t have to talk about it. Ever.” Richie sets the coffee on the counter, knowing he’ll spill it in his current state. “Seriously, Eds, we can erase it from our brains, full _Men in Black_ mindwipe, never speak of it again.”

Eddie looks at him strangely. “Is that what you want?”

“It was your first time with a guy,” Richie supplies, gripping the back of the chair in front of him. “I don’t know. It’s—it’s your call, man.”

“I want you to know I liked it. I really liked it.”

Richie thinks he’s going to black out. “Oh.”

“I want to,” Eddie stops himself and takes a breath, and suddenly Richie realizes he’s probably had to _practice_ whatever he’s about to say next. “I want to do it again. If you want to. But, if you want to mindwipe, we can do that.”

“Again?” Richie asks dumbly, his brows raised. “Eddie, I promise you can get better dick from someone else, I… I’m just your first one.”

“No,” Eddie shakes his head. “It’s not about that. I like you, Richie, you’re my best friend.”

“You like me?” _Stupid, Richie, stupid!_ “You liked when I sucked your dick?”

Something shifts. Eddie looks at him intensely, and Richie feels his spine turn to jelly.

“Yes,” Eddie nods. “I really liked when you sucked my dick. You can do it again.”

Richie’s mouth works faster than his brain. “Right now?”

“In the kitchen?” Eddie’s brows raise. “What? You eat here. I was thinking later, but…”

Richie starts walking around the kitchen island, his brain on autopilot. “But?”

“You wouldn’t.” Eddie teases, smiling as Richie backs him into a corner. They’re so close now. Richie could kiss him if he knew Eddie wouldn’t pull away. There’s no guarantee for that kind of intimacy right now. He’ll take whatever he can get.

“I would.” Richie nods, placing his hands on the waistband of Eddie’s pajama pants. “Dare me.”

“I dare you—”

Eddie hasn’t even finished saying it when Richie drops to his knees. Richie pulls Eddie’s pants and boxers down to his ankles, now face to face with Eddie’s exposed cock. Richie’s sucked dick before, Richie _likes_ sucking dick, but nothing compares to doing it to the man he loves, the man he’s loved his whole life.

“You smell nice,” Richie hums, pressing a kiss to the head. “Did you shower again?” He licks up and around the base, nosing against the soft thatch of hair at the base.

“Uh-huh.” He can hear Eddie nod, rather than see it. Eddie reaches out and starts to pull off Richie’s glasses.

“Hey, what’s the big idea?” Richie stops, tilting his head and watching as Eddie blurs above him. 

“They’re digging into me,” Eddie supplies, and Richie can hear them being gently set onto the counter. “And I don’t want you to have to clean them again.”

_So considerate._ Richie returns to lazily tonguing Eddie’s cock, unhurried now that he feels he has full permission to touch Eddie as he pleases. Eddie makes soft, wonderful sounds above him, hand fisting tight into Richie’s hair. Richie moans around him when he tugs, the sharp sensation at his scalp sending shivers up his spine. Finally, he sucks the head into his mouth, then takes Eddie as far as he can go, his hand making up for any in-between. His knees ache, but it’s worth it. Eddie’s always been worth it.

All Richie can hear are the messy sounds of the two of them meeting, the high hitch of Eddie’s breath, and the blood rushing in his ears. It’s perfect.

“Richie,” Eddie blurts, “Richie, can you stop?”

Richie pulls back quickly and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “What? What’s wrong?” _He doesn’t want it he’s changed his mind he knows better he’s always known better—_

“I don’t want it to be over yet.” Eddie replies, and all the tension suddenly leaves Richie’s body. “Can I—I want to do it to you.”

Richie’s brows raise. “Really?”

“Yeah, can you, just, uh…” Eddie looks around, and Richie can tell he’s trying to plot a course of action.

Richie does it for him, sitting back on his ass and scooting back until he’s lying in the middle of the kitchen floor. He pulls his sweats down, sighing in relief as his hard cock springs free. He feels so exposed, but it hardly matters anymore. Eddie eyes his crotch strangely, fully stepping out of his bottoms so he can settle between Richie’s legs.

“I didn’t see it last time,” Eddie explains quietly. “You’re big.”

“Not _that_ big.” Richie rumbles in return. “Can I have my glasses back? Please?”

“Jesus, this is a bad idea.” Eddie sighs, handing Richie his glasses anyways.

“Eds, hey,” Richie sits up, putting his glasses on so he can finally see him clearly. “We can stop at any time. It’s okay.”

“No, we’re doing _this_ ,” Eddie gestures between them, “I don’t know when you last cleaned this floor, though. I mean, do you know how many bacteria live in kitchen tiles? I was reading this report…”

Richie zones out, completely mesmerized by the fact that Eddie even wants to have sex with him at all! Bacteria talk should be a boner killer, but it isn't. Richie's still hard as ever, staring up at Eddie as he details some article he read online. He can't stop thinking the same thought, looping like static in the back of his mind: _I love him I love him I love him._

Finally, when Richie feels he has the brainpower to speak, he says, "Bedroom?"

Eddie visibly relaxes, reaching out a hand and helping Richie to his feet. Richie kicks off his pants, the two of them bottomless as they climb the stairs. Eddie holds Richie's hand the entire time. It makes him feel dizzy.

"What are we doing?" Richie says, closing the door behind them once they're in. "What's the plan?"

"I don't know," Eddie shakes his head, pulling his shirt off in one swift motion. Richie has to swallow to keep from drooling. "What do you normally do? What do you like?"

"I thought I was supposed to be blowing you." Richie offers.

"You already did that." Eddie reaches for Richie's shirt, guiding him out of it.

"I didn't finish." Richie counters.

"So what? There's more than just blowjobs, right? Show me something you like, Rich. I want to make you happy."

_I want to make you happy._ Fuck, Richie loves him so goddamn much he feels like he'll combust with the force of it.

"Eddie," He starts, opening his bedside drawer to grab a bottle of lube. "You said you've never been fingered, right? We can do that."

"What? I just said I wanted to do something for you."

"Trust me, that'll do _plenty_ for me. It's a good start, right?"

Eddie pauses, obviously conflicted, and Richie rushes to his side, gently taking his hand.

"Look, it's not that I don't want it, it's just a lot right now." Eddie says and Richie nods, listening intently. "Everything still feels so new."

"Do you want to finger me instead? Do a trial run? Here," Richie scrambles back to the drawer, pulling out a condom. "We'll do it the super safe way. No muss no fuss."

"Are you sure?" Eddie takes the condom in hand, eyeing it curiously.

Richie knows what he really wants, but saying it feels terrifying. He takes a breath, pushing past the fear anyways.

"I'll even let you fuck me."

Eddie's never looked at him like this before. It's strange, sure, but there's a hunger to it, a longing Richie thought only he possessed within their dynamic—or, he might categorize it as a relationship, but that feels simpler than it is. Richie has to go into this knowing the truth: he is Eddie's safest option right now. It's nothing more than that. He knows better.

"I want that," Eddie nods, dark eyes wide. "Richie, I really want that. Can we do that? You like that?"

"I fucking love it, Eds," Richie wraps a hand around him, stroking him lightly. "You'll see how much I love it. You'll like it too. It'll be so good."

Eddie nods, making a small noise in his throat. His eyes lock with Richie's. "Sex can be good."

"There you go." Richie praises, Eddie's cock thick and still wet in his grip. "You wanna fuck me, Eds?"

Richie knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he probably looks wild right now. His hair's a mess from Eddie's grip, he's flushed all over from arousal. The thought of Eddie fucking him makes him lightheaded. All of these years of repression, of wanting, the knowing and unknowing sides of his desire, are finally adding up to something. No, it's not that all Richie imagined, but he will take every ounce of what he is given. 

"Yes," Eddie answers, finally, "Yes. I do."

Richie settles back on the bed, turning over onto his stomach. He can feel Eddie's gaze rather than see him. "The condom's lubed. Just put it over your index finger. I'll tell you if anything hurts."

"I can—I can figure it out Richie, just give me a second." Eddie's voice wavers.

Richie looks back over his shoulder to see Eddie making what he can only classify as eye contact with Richie's entrance. Richie swallows, his throat suddenly dry.

"It won't bite."

"I know, asshole."

"Who are you talking to? Me or him?"

Eddie shuts Richie up by prodding at his rim. Richie sinks into the mattress in unbearable anticipation for what comes next. He moans when Eddie rubs at him, not pressing in, just adding pressure. Eddie's a novice and it already feels better than anything Richie could ever do to himself.

The tip of Eddie's condom-covered index finger slides in. Richie sighs, the angle of his face against the pillows causing his breath to fog up his glasses.

"Good," Richie encourages him, "Really good. Keep going."

They keep up like this for a few moments, Eddie stretching him out and exploring. Richie makes pitiful noises into the pillow, his cock hard and leaking against his nice comforter. Richie doesn’t even have to prompt him to add a second finger. Finally, Eddie’s fingers graze his prostate and Richie’s entire body jolts.

“What? That was it, right?” Eddie stills, still hovering over the spot.

“Yes, there, _fuck,_ ” Richie nods as much as he can with his face pressed into the pillows. Eddie hits it again. “ _EddieEddieEddie._ ”

It’s too much, too good. Richie goes brainless and boneless as Eddie gives him the best amateur prostate massage of his entire life. He can’t help any of the sounds he’s making, the way he’s sweating into the sheets below him, how often he’s simply crying out his name: _Eddie. Eddie. Eddie. Eddie._

His orgasm takes him by surprise, he only gets a second of realization before he starts to come undone.

“Fuck, I’m coming, I’m coming,” he cries out, shaking as Eddie fucks him through it. Eventually Eddie pulls out and Richie is left panting, turning over his shoulder to look at him. “Oh, fuck, Eddie, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Wanted to wait.”

“It was that good?” Eddie’s pupils are as big as saucers. “What I just did to you?”

Richie can’t believe his eyes. He looks over him, trying to memorize Eddie in this unkempt state, hot and wanting in front of him. His gaze drifts to Eddie’s cock, seeing the damp patch it’s left underneath it on the bedspread. _So wet._

Richie doesn’t answer. Instead he stretches the tiniest bit, grabbing the bottle of lube he’d meant to put aside earlier. He hands it to Eddie, his hands still shaking from the force of his orgasm.

“What?” Eddie asks. “You can still get fucked?”

Richie spreads his ass cheeks apart with his hands. “Smear it all over. Fuck in between. Pretty close to our failed mission.”

Eddie looks at him like a deer in headlights.

“Or you could, uh, hold on.” Richie rolls over onto his back, come drying on his stomach. “Fuck my thighs. My chest—I’ve got enough here you could probably make it work.”

“I— _fuck,_ ” Eddie sighs impatiently, stroking himself. “Anything. Just let me kiss you?”

That’s the sexiest thing Eddie’s ever said. Richie pulls Eddie in, taking the lube from his hand as he goes. The kiss tastes like mint and coffee, though Richie realizes he still must taste a bit like _Eddie._ Eddie’s tasting himself, strong and heady on Richie’s tongue.

Richie pulls away only long enough to pour an ungodly amount of lube between his thighs. He takes Eddie in hand, guiding him into the warm, hot press of his legs, and closes tighter around him.

Eddie lets out a punched-out sound, clinging to Richie like a lifeline as Richie rolls onto his side, repositioning them so Eddie can move a little more freely. Eddie hooks a leg over Richie, effectively sliding between him. He thrusts desperately, burying his face in Richie’s neck as he lets out soft, desperate noises.

“There you go, Eds,” Richie starts babbling, trash mouth in action as he holds him tight against his chest. “Fuck me. You can do it. Next time I’ll get you inside of me. It'll be so good. You're already doing so good."

Eddie moans openly at that, sliding in and out, his nails digging into the meat of Richie's shoulder.

Richie wishes he could ask for Eddie's fingers again, or a pillow, or a gag, or _anything._ He knows if he keeps talking it's all going to go to hell. Eddie wanted to kiss him, but they can hardly do it like this.

"Eddie, are you close?"

Eddie answers with a noncommittal grunt. Richie takes that as a yes- _ish,_ but not an immediate concern. "Eddie, can I roll over onto my hands and knees? It'll be better."

" _Jesus fuck..._ " Eddie breathes, pulling out and rolling onto his back. "You're killing me. It's already _good_."

He can't tell if that's good or bad. Richie looks over him, taking in his flushed cheeks and chest, his leaking cock. Richie changes the plan quickly, wrapping a hand around him instead, stroking him firmly.

Eddie must like it. One hand reaches out to clutch at the sheets, the other to clutch Richie's bicep. Richie takes the leap, leaning in to kiss him. Eddie reciprocates, humming a happy noise into Richie's mouth. It's not long before Eddie finally comes, pulling away to look down at his release covering Richie's hand. Richie would follow his gaze, but he can't help but look at his face, watching him fall apart.

"Oh, fuck," Eddie pants, "Fuck, _Richie._ "

Richie wishes he could immortalize the sound of his name in Eddie's mouth. Especially now, when Richie's the one making him lose control. He soothes him through the end of it, pressing warm kisses to Eddie's sweaty forehead, nosing at his coconut shampoo scented scalp. He feels Eddie start to relax, although still shaking underneath him. Richie lets go of his cock, instead petting gently at his stomach, his abdomen, anything that might help him come down.

"Richie." Eddie sighs, leaning in to kiss him again. Richie happily kisses him back, feeling gooey and languid. There is no world outside of them now. There's just this.

And Eddie's wife.

The reality of the situation washes over him, ice-cold and unrelenting. It may feel like love. It may not be love.

"You look good," Richie mutters, not ready to leave Eddie just yet. "Should I take another picture?"

Eddie looks up at him, fucking _Bambi-eyed._ It makes Richie queasy in the best and worst ways possible.

"No," He shakes his head. "That was for us."

Richie doesn't know what to make of that. He simply nods, rolling back onto his back, and stares at the ceiling. The word repeats in his mind, almost loud enough to block out the fear. _Us. Us. Us._

* * *

It happens again. And again. And again.

They make more a couple more appearances doing little things, like grocery shopping or getting coffee. It’s easier, more natural now that they’ve crossed the threshold of kissing and touching. Richie gets Eddie’s complicated Starbucks order right and Eddie rewards him with a sweet peck on the lips, caught just in time by gathering of paparazzi just outside the window. Richie’s sure they capture the blush on his cheeks that always follows.

He does it when the cameras aren’t around, too. Usually as a thanks or reward, like after Richie’s made coffee, or ordered diner, or done the dishes. Sometimes he does it for no reason at all, pressing Richie up against the door of his bedroom, the kitchen counters, the hallway walls. They fuck furiously, hurriedly, anywhere they can, wherever they can. They’ve broken the seal on decades of repression.

Myra calls Eddie every couple of days. Richie doesn’t hear much of it, only Eddie’s side, and even then, Eddie likes to walk across the house where Richie can’t hear him at all. He always comes back angry, desperate for a distraction, which Richie is more than willing to give. It isn’t always sexual, no, but most nights that Richie decides to sit the two of them in front of the TV end with somebody’s cock in somebody’s mouth. Eddie blows Richie during an episode of _Guy’s Grocery Games_ and Richie worries he just might develop a Fieri-themed complex. If frosted tips get him hard from now on, it’ll be worth it to remember the blissful heat of Eddie’s mouth around him.

For the abundance of sex they’re having, there’s an absence of conversation. Not conversation in general, no, they have plenty to talk about—plenty to argue about, even! Now Richie knows how to win by shutting him up, which is something he wishes he could have been doing years ago. But they don't _talk_ about it. There's never a moment where one of them speaks up, where Richie says any of the things he's dying to say, like _I love you_ or _You're it for me_ or _Move in with me. Marry me. You've ruined me. You're the only person I'll ever love._

Instead, it's business as usual. They don't sleep in the same bed unless they start their night there in the first place. They separate to work, Eddie from home, Richie coming back and forth from Netflix offices and writers’ rooms, putting the finishing touches on his new series. He dodges the question every time Eddie asks what it's about. He can't outright say it's semi-autobiographical because that's embarrassing, but he can't really say the log line either. _A schlubby comedian known for his gross sense of humor comes out at 40, completely shifting the world's perception of him, as well as his perception of himself_ was the pitch, incriminatingly synonymous with semi-autobiographical. Richie doesn't even know how to tell Eddie that they've cast Adam Brody in a part very, _very_ loosely based on him, which he _knows_ will give Eddie some kind of complex. He can hear him now: _Adam Brody is three inches taller than me, you fucking dick! What's that about!_

The problem with keeping Eddie in the dark is the fact that it will eventually all come out. All of it, not just the show but the not-so-secret feeling that's been fermenting for decades now. He feels just as he did when he first carved their initials into the kissing bridge, terrified and absolutely bursting with the force of it. It, referring to an emotion he could not name at thirteen. It, referring to love.

He can’t keep it up, but he can’t ruin it. He promises himself he’ll tell Eddie something, anything, about how he feels, rather than burying it under the amount of _amazing, life-changing_ sex they’ve been having. It’s the little things that kill him. The little touches, laughs, the way Eddie’s eyes nearly disappear with the force of his grin, the way his nostrils flare when he’s angry. Richie can’t take his eyes off of him. Not for a second. Nor would he ever want to.

* * *

Richie starts his day by drearily pouring two cups of coffee, formulating just how he’s going to tell Eddie he’s in love with him. Mid imaginary speech— _all I’ve ever wanted to do was hold your hand, uh, like the Beatles said—_ Eddie comes up behind Richie and startles him, splashing a few drops of coffee onto the counter. Eddie’s unfazed, snaking a hand under Richie’s shirt and grabbing a handful of Richie’s chest. He places a gentle kiss against his shoulder for good measure, which Richie assumes is an apology for scaring him.

“Good morning.” Eddie mumbles, running his hand over Richie’s broad chest. Richie leans into him, pained and perfectly happy.

“Already in the mood?” Richie turns just enough to press a kiss to the side of Eddie’s head.

“Feels like I’m always in the mood,” Eddie grumbles, voice still heavy with sleep. “You’ve ruined me, Rich.”

Before Richie can process that, Eddie tacks on another thought, “Besides, don’t you have that party today?”

_Fuck._ The stupid Netflix party. Richie groans, shutting his eyes tight. “Yeah, but I’d rather be with you.”

“Then take me with you,” Eddie shrugs, letting go of Richie. “It’s a PR event, right? Pictures.”

Richie tries not to show his disappointment at the loss of Eddie wrapped around him. “No headway with Mommy Dearest 2.0.?”

“Don’t call her that, asshole.” He scolds, taking his cup from the counter. “And no. I don’t know. She’s still fighting. It’s like, we almost get there, and then she just turns around and says something and we’re back to square one.”

“You send her those pictures yet?” Richie grabs a nearby rag, soaking up the slight spill.

“No, you perv,” He gently shoves Richie’s arm. “She doesn’t want to see that shit.”

_That was for us,_ Richie thinks back to, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“There are going to be a lot of celebrities there.” Richie starts, turning to lean against the counter and finally face Eddie.

“Like who?” Eddie scoffs, unfazed as he sips his coffee. “I’m not some starstruck teen, Richie, I can handle your co-workers.”

Richie braces himself. “Adam Brody?”

Eddie has little to no reaction. “Like from the O.C.?”

“Yeah, that one.” He pauses. “He’s on my show.”

“Really?” Eddie perks up, especially seeing as Richie hasn’t told him anything yet. “Who does he play?”

“Uh,” Richie fumbles, “My love interest.”

Eddie’s quiet for a moment and Richie suddenly realizes he may have just fucked it all up. No time for a grand speech or anything! Eddie will put together that Richie’s love interest looks just enough like him to realize Richie is projecting, that Eddie has been some great, untouchable fantasy of his all along. And he would be right. Of course he would.

“Rich, your character is gay? That’s huge!” Eddie sets his mug aside, going to give Richie a celebratory pat on the arm. "That's really fucking huge, right?"

"Yeah. It's big." Richie doesn't know what to say, especially not with Eddie standing so close to him. "You sure you want to come today? It's in a few hours. My fucking, stylist or whatever," Embarrassing. Richie hates the meticulousness of celebrity. "Already sent over some stuff for me to wear. We can go through them together if you want?"

"Rich, your clothes aren't going to fit me. I have my own nice clothes, remember?" Eddie stays in his space, and all Richie wants to do is kiss him stupid.

"Nice clothes," Richie snorts, teasing, "More like boring clothes."

"How about this..." Eddie steps even closer, dipping his hands under Richie's shirt, gently palming his stomach. "You pick me out a less boring outfit, and I'll pick you out something at least _semi_ presentable."

"Uh-huh." Richie nods, setting his own coffee aside before he can make more of a mess. "You wanna dress me up like a Barbie doll?"

"Absolutely." He leans in, nuzzling his face into the crook of Richie's neck and pressing up against his front. It's so intimate Richie feels he could cry. "You said it was in a few hours, right?"

"What, you got something in mind, Spaghetti?"

"I can think of a few things." Eddie kisses him, and Richie finds there’s no more use in thinking.

* * *

It's a fucking garden party, with tea and little sandwiches and everyone in floral and lively summer colors. The staged-ness of it makes Richie want to puke all over the display of pastel macaroons. It's meant to be a welcome to the newbies, reminding Richie of an old Hollywood studio system: _once you're here, you're ours._

Eddie's dressed Richie just fine, far more suave than he's used to. His shirt is unbuttoned low enough to expose his hairy chest, which Richie would normally avoid in public, but it seems to get Eddie reeling. Richie feels the same when he looks over to see Eddie chatting with one of his costars, wearing one of Richie's loudest, ugliest Hawaiian shirts. It was a compromise, sure, but Richie still feels his heart leap looking at Eddie wearing _his_ clothes. And, at the same time in some way, being _his._

"You having fun?" Richie asks about twenty minutes in as they sip their sangria.

Eddie shoots him a funny look, visibly holding back a smile. He pulls at his shirt, stretching it out for him and Richie to view. "Oh, of course. The shirt says it all."

"I knew you'd hate it." Richie grins, proud of himself. "Anyone you wanna meet? Otherwise, this is just a take pictures and go kind of thing."

Eddie scans the crowd, thick brows furrowed. Richie watches him intensely, committing every wrinkle and crease to memory.

"Oh, shit." Eddie straightens up, startled.

Richie follows his gaze to see a woman he's never seen in person before—but has _certainly_ seen on screen. "Wait. Is that Bill's ex-wife?"

"Audra Philips." Eddie nods, looking back at Richie with wide eyes. "Do you think she knows who we are?"

When Richie and Eddie look back, Audra is looking at them. She gives a little wave, clearly unamused.

"Yep," Richie nods, "She definitely knows who we are."

Audra approaches them like a shark, calculated and deliberate, sipping her drink all the while. Richie’s scared shitless, remembering in that moment the last time he spoke to her ex-husband. He still doesn’t know why Mike was there, and he prays to every god he doesn’t believe in that she won’t bring it up.

“Hi, guys,” She says, friendly enough, but Richie can hear the slight bite in her voice. “You’re Bill’s friends.”

Eddie nods, confirming as he offers her a hand to shake. She reciprocates politely. _God, he’s so good._

“Eddie Kaspbrak,” He says, then gestures to Richie, “That’s Richie. We grew up with Bill in Maine.”

“Audra.” She offers in return, though they both know who she is. “I know about Maine.”

Richie and Eddie share a panicked look, prompting Richie to ask, “How much about Maine?”

Just then, Eddie’s phone rings in his pocket. He pulls it out and curses softly to himself. “It’s Myra. I just have to take care of this, I’ll be right back—” He sends Richie one last look as, and Richie nods, knowing what he means, or at least knowing well enough.

“So, what about Maine?” He tries to ask as casually as possible.

“Just that you, Beverly Marsh, and my husband all came back with new- _old_ boyfriends. Must be a special place. Special enough to fuck up an entire movie over.” Audra shrugs, very obviously agitated. It’s just as Richie feared, this has nothing to do with him, but he’s the closest to Bill she’s probably been in a while. He’s like a magnet for her leftover aggression.

There’s a relief, though, that this isn’t about the fucking clown, but instead suspicions of infidelity. He can handle infidelity. Hell, he’s technically participating in it!

“Bill?” He doesn't know what she means by that. _Unless._ "Oh. Oh, Audra, they're—I don't think you need to worry about Mike like that. He's a good guy, but I don't know if either of them are..." _Say it, Richie. What you are. What are you?_

"Holy shit," Audra mutters, seeming genuinely apologetic. “You didn’t know? I’m sorry, that was completely out of line. I thought you two were close.”

Richie fumbles for a moment. “We are?”

Is that true? Had they told him, or tried to tell him, and he hadn’t even been paying attention? Why had he felt so alone in this when Bill and Mike were _right there?_ Right there, proving that his feelings for Eddie weren’t so strange at all, that the eight of them—Beverly, Ben, Bill, Mike, Eddie, Richie, Stan, Patty—ran _parallel._

_Nothing lasts forever,_ Richie had said once, to which Ben replied, _Except maybe for love._

Maybe Eddie could feel that too, that the thought of them together wouldn’t be so absurd. Richie looks over to the corner where he’s standing, quietly and pointedly talking on his cell. He looks so focused, so _tired,_ his face nothing more than a cartoonish amalgamation of hard lines and edges. But there’s still a moment where they meet eyes, and the world stops, and Eddie smiles at him, and Richie is helpless, smiling right back.

He loves him. He loves him. He loves him.

“Can you not tell Bill I told you?” Audra looks at him, a little panicked. It quickly snaps him out of his lovesick haze. “I just figured, since—”

“We both came back from a traumatic experience gay? Yeah, I get it.” Bad joke, but still. He doesn’t know what to say. “It’s cool, don’t worry about it. So. What show are you working on right now?”

Audra visibly relaxes and the two of them chat for a while, making their way to a little seating area. The more he talks about her, the more he realizes he likes her. Richie can picture some alternate universe where everyone had remembered each other, had stuck _together_. He can picture double dates with Bill and the missus, picture years of friendship lost that they all should have had. Years of love lost. He mourns for that.

She’s funny, dry and mean in a way that strangely relaxes Richie. He feels like he can keep up. They exchange numbers before she’s whisked away for a photo-op, and for a moment the scope of his world extends past Eddie, past this brief instance of chaos and confusion. It’s a reminder that he’s not the only one dealing with shit.

“Rich!” Eddie approaches him quickly, Richie knowing the only reason he’s not running is because he has far more manners than Richie does. “She said yes. She finally said yes!”

_She said yes!_ It almost sounds like a proposal, when in fact it’s the opposite. Richie stands from his seat, feeling like he’s about to burst out of his skin. “What does this mean?”

“It means she’s finally signing the fucking papers!” Eddie grins wide, pulling Richie in for a celebratory kiss. Richie absolutely melts, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s waist and pulling him close. He can hear the click of a camera, but it doesn’t feel the same anymore—this doesn’t feel like a performance.

It feels achingly real.

Eddie pulls back just slightly, his nose brushing against Richie’s as he smiles. “Take me home?”

All Richie can do is nod dumbly. “Of course.”

Which is meant to mean: _Anything for you. Everything for you._

* * *

Eddie presses him up against the back of the door as soon as they’re inside Richie’s room, kissing him all over. His hands roam over Richie’s chest, over the patch of exposed skin Richie had been so self-conscious about earlier in the day.

“I can’t believe you let me dress you,” Eddie breathes, unbuttoning Richie’s shirt. “You look so fucking good.” He leans in, latching his lips to Richie’s neck.

“I’m your Barbie doll, baby.” Richie sighs, threading his fingers through Eddie’s dark hair.

“Oh, I hate that. Wait, I hate that I love that. Fuck.” Eddie’s already a bit breathless, fumbling with Richie’s belt. He laughs, a high, giddy sound. “I can’t believe this is finally happening.”

“Eddie!” Richie laughs back, amazed. “Eddie, this has already happened, man! Do you not remember sucking my dick this morning?”

“No,” Eddie shakes his head, pointedly looking Richie in the eyes. “This is finally happening—” He stops himself, taking a breath. The sincerity in his eyes nearly terrifies Richie. “This is finally happening without _her_.”

“Oh? Has she been in the room?” Richie jokes lightly, going for Eddie’s belt. “I didn’t notice.”

Eddie places a hand on Richie’s chest, effectively stopping him. “Richie.”

“Eddie.” Richie counters, mimicking Eddie’s stern tone.

Eddie doesn’t say anything, instead just looking at Richie with those big, dark eyes of his. _You could drown in those eyes,_ Richie thinks, and places a hand over Eddie’s where it is still pressed to his chest. Eddie leans in to kiss him once more, sweet and unhurried. It’s enough to make Richie whimper.

“Fuck me?” Eddie mutters, hot and half into Richie’s mouth.

Richie pulls back to look at him, heart thrumming in his chest, his ears—god, _did he just hear that right?_

“Are you sure?” Richie squeezes Eddie’s hand for good measure, a check-in. “I thought you’d be like, way more anal about it, remember? I mean, it might get kind of gross.”

“I’ve already showered twice today.” Eddie huffs, “You don’t need to baby me. Seriously. And remember, it’s not _gross,_ it’s _good._ That’s what you told me.”

“I did,” Richie sighs, playing it up. “And we both know I’m always right.”

“Shut up.” Eddie beams. “You going to finger me or what?”

“Oh, fuck, you can’t just say that.” Richie groans, letting his head roll back and hit the wall. _Ouch._

“What?” Eddie plays dumb, unbuttoning his own shirt. “Why not?”

“Because you’re so hot it’s literally painful. Look at me, I’m in pain.” He rubs at the back of his head for emphasis.

“You think I’m hot, huh?” Eddie grins again. Richie’s hopeless.

“Don’t use this against me, you little turd.” Richie grins as he steps forward, making a quick decision. He hefts Eddie over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

“What the fuck!” Eddie yells, but Richie can feel him smiling. “Richie, you’ll throw your fucking back out!”

“Calm down, Dr. K, it’s like four steps to the bed.” Richie huffs.

Eddie’s not wrong. It’s an excruciating four steps, but he makes it anyways, playfully dropping Eddie onto the mattress. Eddie laughs, a sound Richie wants to elicit from him for the rest of his life. Briefly, a terrible thought pops into his head: _Eddie’s not married anymore,_ immediately followed by, _He should marry me._

Richie allows himself to be delusional just this once. Maybe after this he’ll have the courage to talk to Eddie, to say something. This could be the last time, and with Myra out of the picture, Richie fears it most likely is. He’ll just have to make it count.

They both strip quickly out of their clothes, Richie staring intently at the way his shirt falls down Eddie’s shoulders and pools at his hips. Richie lets his half hard cock spring free, unable to ignore the way Eddie watches him, wide-eyed and always wanting more. Richie climbs over him, planting kisses on his chest, his neck, all the way up to his lips, soft and already open for him.

They make out for a while, rutting together, finally equipped with all the time in the world. Richie pulls away only grab condoms and lube, descending back on Eddie with renewed fervor, kissing him with everything he’s got. Eddie eagerly reciprocates, gripping Richie’s hair as their cocks slide together.

“How,” Eddie starts before getting distracted by another kiss, “How should we do this?”

“You wanna stay on your back so I can kiss you?” He knows he wouldn’t be able to be this gentle with him in any other context. Not so openly, not without teasing or confusion.

Eddie nods. “Yes, please.”

“Ha! I got a please!” Richie grins, shifting to settle in between Eddie’s legs. “A please from Eddie Kaspbrak. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Fuck you, don’t make me take it back.” Eddie squirms, palming himself.

“You really want it, huh?” Richie’s brows raise. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Eddie like this.

“I want _you_.” Eddie clarifies, looking right into Richie’s eyes.

That shakes him to his core. Three words he’d longed to hear his whole life, spoken so easily, so _freely._ He wants him. Eddie wants him.

Richie slicks up his fingers, then gets to warming him up, one finger teasing his rim and one hand firmly jacking him off. Eddie relaxes enough for the tip of Richie’s index to slide in, eliciting a low, almost primal sound from Eddie. Richie continues to work him open, gentle with him as Eddie adjusts. Finally, Richie crooks his fingers just right and Eddie’s hips buck on their own accord.

“ _Oh!_ ” He cries out, looking somewhat shocked. “Oh. _Oh_?”

“I know, right?” Richie teases, doing what he knows feels good on himself. He’s not usually in this position.

“Richie,” Eddie stops speaking to exhale, his cheeks puffing up with the force of it. “Wow—” he cuts himself off with a moan. “Oh, wow, _ha_ , _god._ ”

If it’s the only time he gets to see Eddie come apart like this, it’s worth it. Richie lays off for a moment, focusing back on the task at hand. He can’t let it end too early, can’t ruin it like he ruined it when he’d begged Eddie to fuck him and lost it the second Eddie slipped inside.

“Richie.” Eddie grabs a hold of his arm, guiding him to thrust harder. “Again, _please_.”

Who is he to say no to Eddie? He obliges, watching as Eddie’s back arches off the bed with the force of his pleasure. Richie’s doing that to him. Richie’s the first person to ever make Eddie feel this good. He’ll hold onto that forever.

“Better?” Richie asks, deliberate with his movements.

“Yes,” Eddie chokes out, “Oh, _fuck_ yes. _Yes._ Oh, I love you, _I love you—_ ”

_That can’t be right._ Eddie’s never said _I love you_ to Richie once in his life, not even when on the brink of death, not after spending so much time convincing Richie this didn’t have to be _anything._ But here they are, in the middle of everything.

Richie stills his fingers while Eddie whimpers, rolling his hips to try and fuck himself. Richie pulls out altogether and sits back on his heels.

“Why’d you say that?” Richie asks, furrowing his brows. He can feel tears start to form, he sniffs them back and hopes Eddie doesn’t notice.

“Did you want it to be more special?” Eddie leans up on his elbows, looking at Richie curiously. “I—I’m sorry. Was that stupid?”

“You can’t just say you love me because I’m making you feel good.” Richie sniffs again, shaking his head. “You can’t just say it.”

Eddie sits up fully now. Richie’s tears are rolling down his cheeks, his shoulders shaking with the effort to suppress them. “Hey. _Hey._ Rich, I’m not saying it because you’re finger-fucking me, I’m saying it because we’re together. I should have said it sooner.”

“We’re _together?!_ ” Richie gasps through his tears. Had they truly been? Was Richie that stupid, not noticing the love of his life felt the same way? “Since _when_?”

“Since—since I told you I liked you in the kitchen? And we started having sex for real?” Eddie pets at Richie’s arms, his back, all in an attempt to soothe. It’s working. “Richie… what went wrong?”

“You have to tell me this shit!” Richie cries out, pushing his glasses up so he can wipe at his eyes. “I thought we were just—”

He doesn’t have to say it. Eddie stills his hands.

“I figured we dropped the act.” He shrugs. “I dropped the act.”

“I did, too!” Richie’s quick to correct him. “I thought you hadn’t! I thought I was practice!”

“Practice for what?” Eddie huffs out a laugh, wide-eyed. “You’re it, Richie. It’s you. There’s no one else but you.”

Richie cries harder. Eddie holds him through it, stroking his hair until he’s ready to talk.

“I’ve been in love with you my whole life.” Richie mutters against Eddie’s shoulder. “You’re the love of my life. I tried to tell you, but I couldn’t. Then I was going to tell you with fucking _Adam Brody—_ ”

“ _Adam Brody?_ ” Eddie pulls back to look Richie in the eyes.

“My _show._ I thought you’d at least figure it out from my love interest _looking_ like you—”

“I do _not_ look like fucking Seth Cohen.”

“You don’t _not_ look like Seth Cohen!” Richie shuts him up with that one, giving him the space to continue. “The character wasn’t based off you, necessarily, I mean he was, but he wasn’t—he was my childhood friend who I’m desperately, fucking _madly_ in love with. I thought it would come out and you would see it and get it, and I wouldn’t have to embarrass myself by saying it to your face and you rejecting me.”

Eddie process for a moment, holding up a finger, signaling for Richie to stay quiet. “So, you were going to wait another fucking year to tell me? And you weren’t even going to tell me, your _TV show_ was?”

“That was the plan. At least, until you came here, and came out, and _came—_ ”

“You’re so stupid.” Eddie shakes his head, letting out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “ _We’re_ so stupid.”

“Are we?” Richie sniffs, finally somewhat composed.

“Fucking _idiots._ ” Eddie grins and kisses Richie with all he’s got. “I love you, Rich.”

It takes Richie a second to be able to say it, to push through the years of not being able to, of not _knowing_ to.

“I love you, Eddie.” Richie’s already tearing up again. _Fuck_. “I love you so fucking much.”

Eddie holds him for a long time after, neither of them in any rush to finish what they started. They have plenty of time.

* * *

The _Trashmouth_ premiere is set to be one of the most stressful nights of Richie’s life. Months of hard work have finally added up to one night in a monkey suit, surrounded by journalists and executives when all he wants to do is be with his husband.

Eddie’s invited, of course. Richie wouldn’t be caught dead without a date.

“How fucked up can I get tonight?” Richie asks as they’re still getting ready, up in a fancy hotel room with a fucking _styling team._ Richie’s never felt this put together in his life— _physically_ , at least.

“You don’t need my permission,” Eddie reminds him as he straightens his own tie. “But I’ll be there if you do something stupid.”

“I’m always doing something stupid.”

“Good thing I’m always there.”

“Hey, guys,” Richie looks around the room, calling out the team. “Can we get a minute alone?”

The room clears, and all that’s left is Richie standing face to face with Eddie. He kisses him softly, lingering before everything gets too crazy.

“We’ll meet everyone at the bar.” Eddie says, gently rubbing Richie’s arm. “Audra texted to say she won’t throw a drink in Bill’s face unless provoked. Otherwise, everything’s taken care of.”

“You’re perfect.” Richie sighs, kissing him again. “I’m about to make an absolute fucking fool of myself.”

“No, you’re not. And anyone who says shit about you will have to go through me, okay?”

“Oh, Eddie. _My hero_.” Richie kisses the top of his head.

“Yeah,” Eddie mumbles. “Nobody makes fun of my husband but me.”

“What was that?” Richie grins, pretending he didn’t hear.

“Nothing, Rich.”

“Oh, of course.”

There’s a knock on the hotel room door. “Mr. Tozier? Five minutes until we need to leave.”

“Thanks!” Richie calls out, then directs his gaze back to Eddie. “Ready to watch me make a fool of myself?”

“Absolutely. For the rest of my life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys liked it!!! Comments and kudos are appreciated <3
> 
> You can follow me on twitter @evankaspbrak


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